


The Act or Art of Criticizing

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the cat's away, the mouse will... do this, apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Act or Art of Criticizing

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Episodes 8-1 and 8-2. Title is the definition of "critique" from Dictionary.com. _Collins English Dictionary - Complete & Unabridged 10th Edition_. HarperCollins Publishers. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/critique (accessed: October 16, 2011). Thank you to Nightdog, Corgigirl, Hannah, and especially Blackmare for suggestions.

House decides to knock ‘shave and a haircut’ on the loft door and is pleased when ‘two bits’ is rapped back before the door opens.

“House.”

Wilson’s expression is… interesting. House’s first temptation is to call it “pissed,” but he’s been trying to identify and eliminate his own defensiveness when it comes to Wilson, to give them both a fair chance. Nolan, that old quack, would be proud. As would Wilson, if there existed a possibility in hell that House would ever tell him.

“What are you doing here?” Wilson asks. “Is something wrong?”

Concerned, that’s what it is. Also a little scared, which makes sense. Wilson knows the consequence of House violating the court’s restrictions on where he can be. What Wilson doesn’t know is:

“Annoyed Foreman into getting the scope of my bling-bling expanded to include your condo.” House chuckles a little at the memory. “It appears concentration is important for conducting sensitive vendor negotiations. Who knew?”

“I.” Wilson stops after just the one word and looks over his shoulder, then back at House. He still seems scared, slightly, though it’s fading into just nervous. Mixed with concern, of course, because that doesn’t ever go away unless he’s plastered-to-the-roots-of-his-hair drunk. Sometimes not even then.

“Got a visitor?” House asks. Yep, he does. Someone he doesn’t want House to know is there. House goes for the easiest possibility. “If it’s Camilla from Tip-Top Escorts, tell her I said hi. And don’t let her charge you for the Dipsy-Do, because I know for a fact she likes it enough to throw it in for free.”

Exasperation. House is getting bored counting expressions; it’s just that Wilson’s face seems to cram so many of them in there.

“It’s not _that_ ,” Wilson says prissily. “It’s…” He looks back towards the rest of the loft one more time, and then his shoulders settle into something resolute. “You know what?” he asks, obviously rhetorically because the next sentence comes too quickly for House to breathe, much less reply. “Fuck it. Come in.”

Strange juxtaposition, but the door opens wide and Wilson steps back, and House is utterly sick of being at the hospital, so he stamps in and heads straight for the fridge. “Discovery Channel’s got a wombat doc on tonight. We can look for Chase’s relatives.” Wilson’d brought all the good beer to House’s, apparently, because all that’s in here is Corona Light. Oh well.

“Maybe later,” Wilson replies. “I’m in the middle of something at the moment.”

House looks up from rummaging for the bottle opener to see that Wilson is literally in the middle of something, namely, a group of four men sitting in his living room.

“Guys,” Wilson says, as House’s mind whirls and whirs, “this is my friend, Greg House. House, this is Brian,” goofy white middle-aged ex-frat-boy, “Kent,” trim, pleated mid-twenties white guy sitting like his ass cheeks are stapled together, “Hiroshi,” tall Asian bland accountant-looking man, “and Julius,” round-faced black guy with the smoothest skin ever before seen on a dude.

There’s a general chorus of “hey”s before Kent pipes up. “We’re a Book Club!”

Amid a cacophony of groans and eye-rolls, Kent protests, “Well, we are!”

This is good. House can work with this. He feels himself grinning; the first swallow of beer goes down cold and smooth.

Julius is chastising Kent. “Thanks, man. Does James’ friend look like he’s the kind of guy who’s going to be interested in a book club?”

“No, it‘s cool,” House says. It’s not too many strides to the living room, and he props himself up against the chair Wilson’s taken a seat in. Wilson is clearly suspicious, and geez, what could have ever given him the impression that House might be less than sincere? Other than the decades they’ve known each other, of course.

House smiles at Kent. “What are you reading this time? _The Red Tent_?”

“No, that was last month,” is the perky reply, and the groans grow louder as House’s grin gets wider.

“What?” Kent asks, but Wilson cuts him off.

“ _Actually_ , this month’s book is one I know you’ve read, House. _A Million Little Pieces_.” Seeing House’s glance, he continues, “Crack addict gets no-anesthesia root canals.”

Oh, yeah, House does remember that one. “Also known as the ‘clearly fake from page five’ book.”

“That’s one of the things we’re discussing,” Brian notes.

House shoves Wilson out of the chair to take a seat. Let Wilson go cuddle up on the couch with Brian and Julius. “How exactly do you ‘discuss’ the fact that it‘s fake?”

“Well, you know,” Brian says, moving over to make room for Wilson, “what clues are there that it might not be fully real.”

“The worried parents of a twenty-three-year-old alcoholic leave him alone with a full bottle of Scotch, that sealed the deal for me.”

“Not everyone is _as_ observant as you are, House,” Wilson points out. There’s a hint of reprimand in his tone, and a little bit of warning, but if House isn’t mistaken -- and, really, when is House ever mistaken? -- there’s some subtle praise too. This could be OK. Better than hanging out on the Dean of Medicine’s too-modern-to-be-comfortable couch doing nothing but staring at pretentious minimalist design and expensively painted blank walls, at least.

“You remember that?” the other guy, Hiroshi, asks incredulously. “When did you read the book?”

“2003, a month or so after it came out.”

“House has a fantastic memory,” Wilson says, and that’s absolutely pride in his voice. “And an advantage in spotting medical inaccuracies in the book,” he continues, turning to address the group as a whole, “so let’s talk about the writing. Kent, do you want to pick out the first discussion question?”

“Sure!”

The eagerness is already getting old, but at least the kid’s relaxed into his seat. Picking up a sheet of paper from the coffee table, Kent recites, “Were there any passages in which you thought the character voice faltered?”

***

Book Club-keteers One through Four hit the road by 9:45. Number Five has dumped the dessert plates and glasses into his dishwasher and settled himself on the couch with a water and the TV remote. House is nursing the last of his second Corona.

Wilson mutes the Australian Outback and looks at his knees. “Thank you.”

“For what? I know it’s not for suggesting this program, because it’s turned out to be a snore.”

“For tonight,” Wilson clarifies. “You were… decent.”

“I can act decent,” House points out. His beer’s empty, so he thumps the bottle onto the coffee table.

Wilson sticks a coaster under the bottle before looking at House. “You _can_ ; you just usually don’t. So thanks.”

House shrugs one shoulder. It’s weird to get gratitude for what most people do without thinking. And it’s weird to realize he’s set the bar that low with Wilson. With his best friend.

Even if an all-guy book club _is_ one of the dorkiest things that has ever existed in the history of the world.

Maybe he does deserve a little gratitude for his restraint.

“ _The Red Tent_? Seriously?”

Wilson sighs; the world settles back into its normal axis. “Our books are normally a little more, um, male-focused, and we get deep into discussion. With that one, I’m pretty sure most of us didn’t actually read it. We were at Brian’s that night; we talked about the book for maybe five minutes and spent the rest of the evening playing table tennis.”

“You mean ping-pong.”

“Whatever.” Wilson chugs the rest of his water, and sticks the glass on the table.

Without a coaster. Interesting.

“You read it, didn’t you?”

“I said --”

“You said, quote, ‘most of us didn’t read it,’ which leaves open the possibility that you _did_ read it.”

The Australian Outback gets un-muted. House remains intent on his prey, like a wombat on Cyperaceae. Wilson is trying to give nothing away, but after only a dozen or so seconds, he breaks.

Covering his eyes, he admits, “I went online to a book club site and downloaded someone else’s notes.”

House missed this hypocritical son-of-a-bitch even more than he had realized. “You’re a weasel.”

“Hey, I only did it the one --” Wilson tries to protest, but then gives up. “I’m a weasel.”

House knocks a knee against his best friend’s leg. “I never said I had a problem with that.”

Wilson smiles. It’s a simple expression, not hard to read at all. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ _The Red Tent_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Tent) is extremely popular with book clubs, but, I'm guessing, not so much with all-male book clubs. As it says on Wikipedia: "The book's title refers to the tent in which women of Jacob's tribe must, according to the ancient law, take refuge while menstruating or giving birth, and in which they find mutual support and encouragement from their mothers, sisters and aunts."


End file.
